Daughter of Dol Amroth
by Jen Littlebottom
Summary: What was Finduilas really like? Surely the mother of Boromir and Faramir could not have been just any simpering maid. Thus I present a Finduilas of a different kind...
1. A Pig Always Squeals

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or places of Middle-earth, and make no claim to them.  Eirien, Echir, Hanion, and Merilien are mine, but you can have them.  Especially Merilien.  Take her.  Please.

Eirien knew exactly where to find her daughter on a cold winter's day like this one.  The library was oak-panelled, warm, and most importantly, quiet.  She waited for a moment, eyeing the figure curled up in a large chair by the fire, and only spoke when it was clear that she would not be getting Finduilas' attention any time soon.

"Echir was asking after you again."

Predictably, Finduilas looked up at her mother from over the edge of her book, raised an eyebrow, and snorted.  "Are you expecting me to be flattered?"

"He is a nice young man." said Eirien, blandly, watching her daughters reaction carefully.  "And his family are rather influential in Minas Tirith, as you well know."

"He is the second son, mother, and terribly dull besides."  The book was laid aside, the brows furrowed in earnest.  "I would end up marooned at some country manor, bored out of my skull."

Her mother laughed.  "I can understand you setting your sights higher, daughter, but be careful with him.  That is not a family we can afford to offend."

Finduilas smiled, planting a gentle kiss on her mother's forehead.  "Easily done.  I shall introduce him to Merilien.  He will love her, for she, having the intellect of a sow, shall never challenge him.  She will love him, for he, being as bland as oatmeal, is perfect for her tastes.  His family will love me for setting their son up with the Steward's granddaughter, and her family will love me for finding a husband for a maiden so light of intellect she floats when she giggles."

Eirien laughed.  The description was cruel, yet perfect.  "You are making many friends and allies among the Steward's friends and kin.  Tell me then, if Echir the Dull does not take your fancy, who in Tirith could live up to your standards?"

"Denethor." replied Finduilas, setting the book aside now.

"You set your sights high indeed."

"Not so much.  I am the daughter of a Prince, of a line touched with the blood of the Firstborn.  Do I not deserve to marry a King?"

"That is dangerous talk, daughter" Eirien said, frowning.  "He may be son to the Steward, but he could never claim the throne."

"King in all but name, then." Finduilas replied.  "And heir to the Stewardship Denethor may be, but his position has been weakened of late by that upstart Thorongil."

She wrinkled her nose, and Eirien made a noise of distaste.  Beloved of the common soldiers and of the Steward Thorongil might be, but many of the high ranking families of Gondor saw him as dangerous.  An unknown quantity, a man whose loyalties could not be trusted.

"Thorongil has no patience for politics." pointed out Eirien.

"And Denethor not much skill for them, which is why he needs an ally – or a wife." replied Finduilas.

Nodding, Eirien considered the idea.  "It would bring more power to Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith both, to bind our family to that of the Steward." She smiled.  "And with you at your most charming, I doubt he'll have much of a chance.  If you can take Thorongil down a couple of pegs while you're at it, so much for the better."

Finduilas chuckled.  "Indeed.  Speaking of more serious matters, have you managed to deal with Hanion?  The continued insolence of the man…"

Eirien nodded.  "His wife is a simpering idiot, some farmer's daughter out of the fields of Lossanarch, but his sister is a wise woman, and one who would like to see her son rise quickly through the ranks of the Dol Amroth army, not be sunk into obscurity in some dangerous backwoods outpost.  There will be no more nonsense about avoiding trading levies."

"As you taught me, mother dearest, there is always more than one way to skin a cat.  He'll squeal about it, of course."

"A pig always squeals when it is caught." shrugged Eirien.  "When it starts squealing, you know you've won.  Now, go get ready.  You can't show up to dinner in breeches and with ink on your fingers, not if you're planning to catch yourself a husband."

"Agreed." said Finduilas, grinning.  "But I swear to you, Mama, that there is nothing to worry about."  She skipped out of the room, pausing at the door.  "I will have him squealing for me before the week is out."

"Foul-mouthed brat." mutter Eirien, but she was smiling too, as she returned the books to their appropriate places – the house Adrahil maintained in Minas Tirith had barely enough servants for her liking, and none of them could be trusted to know which way up a book went, let alone maintain them in the meticulous order both her husband and her daughter insisted on.  Sneezing, and making a mental note to get one of the maids in to dust this room, she headed off after her daughter, closing the door behind her and plotting an imaginary wedding in her head already.

A/N: Denethor had two older sisters, names unknown (according to Annals of Arda).  The hapless Merilien is the daughter of one of these.  Her father is no doubt some Lord or other.  Adrahil is Finduilas' father, and his title was Prince of Dol Amroth.

Echir, 'spear lord', is a random Gondorian Lordling (TM)

Notes on 'Thorongil', and Finduilas and Eirien's dislike of him: Aragorn was certainly very well liked by the Steward Ecthelion, but his presence threatened Denethor's position, and would have also been considered a nuisance by some of the more influential families, who probably quite liked the status quo. 


	2. A Dance, and Many Meetings

Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.

Finduilas cast a critical eye over the gathered crowd, mentally sorting them into the categories of _must talk to, __should talk to, and _avoid at all costs._  She had already caught the eye of Echir, she noted, and pretended not to have seen him as she made her way towards Merilien, thankfully for once not overshadowed by her battleaxe of a mother.  How the eldest daughter of Ecthelion, a six-foot-tall harridan who struck fear into the hearts of half the noblemen of Minas Tirith, had managed to spawn such an insipid creature, she had no idea._

Merilien greeted her with a sunny smile, as usual blissfully ignorant of Finduilas' derision, and started chattering away.  It was almost _too easy to divert her attention towards Echir, and Echir's attention towards her.  By the time she stepped out, on the excuse that she thought her mother wanted to speak to her, they were already looking quite engrossed in each other.  How utterly nauseating._

Still looking around to see if Denethor had arrived yet, she very nearly tripped over the man before she saw him.  She looked up, and then up some more, and scowled.  "Matchmaking." he said.  "That is an interesting hobby for the daughter of Adrahil to be indulging in."

"Captain Thorongil," she ground out, "I scarcely see how my hobbies could possibly be any concern of yours."  For once, he was neatly groomed, well dressed, looking _almost_ as if he fitted in.  Finduilas was not fooled.  "And why have you decided to grace us with your presence this evening?  Are there no matters of training or border skirmishes you could be entertaining yourself with instead?"

"You are very much your father's daughter, I see." he answered, neatly avoiding the question.  Finduilas remembered her father's tales of clashes with Thorongil in council, and frowned.  A clever barbarian, was how Adrahil had described him.  Not lacking in intelligence, for all that he lacked refinement.  Dangerous.  The few meetings she had had with him only confirmed that assessment.

"And proud to be so, Finduilas Adrahiliel of Dol Amroth, the daughter of a family who have served Gondor _truly_, generation after generation, fathers and sons and daughters." she answered, resisting the urge to unleash a sailor's obscenity at the man and then ignore him.  "For every Steward who has watched over Minas Tirith, there has been also a Prince in Dol Amroth, his most fervent ally.  If only there were more in Gondor who were as dedicated to the service of our people, Thorongil of no family and no place."

"A man's worth may not be decided by his ancestors alone, Princess." he said, and left it at that, bowing mockingly to her and sweeping through the crowd towards Ecthelion, ignoring her scowl.  Thorongil had never made any secret of the fact that he was here to serve the Steward, and not to entertain the nobles and their political jousting.  More was the pity, for the man could have made an excellent ally if he would but learn to show some respect and follow the rules of polite society.

She had no more than managed to extricate herself from a conversation with yet another boring nobleman's wife when she spotted Denethor, dark haired and dark garbed and with a dark scowl on his face, at the edge of the room.  Finduilas had to admit that being married to the Steward's son would be no great hardship.  All of that family had that same look – not handsome, per say, but striking, certainly.  An air of command.

Heading in Denethor's direction, she had to smirk to see where that scowl of his was directed.  If looks could kill, Thorongil would have been dead and buried a long time ago.  The room was crowded enough that she could walk past him, close enough that her rustling skirts just brushed against his legs.

"Finduilas of Dol Amroth."  He somehow managed to make her name sound like a title, more sincere than most who called her Princess.  "The White City is honoured by your presence."  

She curtseyed, replying just as formally.  "You are too kind, my Lord.   I am merely here to pay my respects to the Steward your father, whose wisdom and guidance benefits us all."  Seeing his eyes flick to Thorongil, she added "And he has such a way with the common-folk.  Gondor is truly lucky to have him."  The double-meaning in her comment did not go unnoticed, and he held out his hand to her, smiling.

"May I have this dance?"

A little startled, she hesitated before nodding, and he led her towards the centre of the floor as a waltz started up, leading the way with surprising grace.  She found herself smiling, as one song slipped into the next.

"You look surprised." he said dryly.  "That I can dance, or that I would choose to dance with you?"

"A little of both." she answered, truthfully.  "I've never seen you dance before."

"And who would I dance with?" he asked, leading her through the whirling steps of a Lossarnach folk dance without missing a beat, fast enough to make her head spin.  "I am afraid, Princess, that in some matters I am rather derelict in my duty.  Although perhaps as the Steward's son I should spend more time entertaining the ladies of the court, I find myself loath to spend too much time with the simpering girls who make up most of your peers."

"And am I so different?"

"You, Finduilas, I am quite glad are your father's daughter, and not his son.  Adrahil drives a hard enough bargain in council as it is – if you set your mind to it, I would fear for the nobles of Tirith.  We'd be bowing down to you within the year."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." she murmured, curtseying as the dance ended.  "I think there are some in the city who could benefit from a few lessons in humility."  And she was dizzy from more than just the dance.  She had a hundred times had men - boys - such as Echir tell her that her hair was like silk and her eyes like shining stars and her voice like the singing of nightingales.  Then they would turn to the next girl in the line, and say more or less the exact same thing.

She had the feeling that Denethor did not often give out compliments.  But he had complimented her, and not on anything as petty as her hair (which took a good hour and two maids wielding hair-irons to transform it from a birds-nest to the sleek curls Echir had found so wonderful), or her eyes.  He'd complimented her _mind, and she wondered momentarily how he had known how much that would mean to her._

Anything Denethor might have added to the conversation was lost as Adrahil waded through the crowd to them, clapping a hand around Denethor's shoulder.  "Excuse me, Finduilas.  I must steal your dance partner." To Denethor he said "Come on, lad." and Finduilas choked on her laughter, for her father was not all that much older than Denethor.  "I have some important matters to discuss with your father." he added, and Denethor bowed to Finduilas and went willingly.

She had a moment of amusement, watching her father clearly snub Thorongil before disappearing off somewhere to talk with the Steward and his son, but grew quickly bored of the company that remained to her and the idle chatter people kept attempting to embroil her in.  Making her excuses, she made her way to her chambers.  If the maid wondered why she was back so early, or why her usually sour mistress was humming a waltz under her breath, she was wise enough not to comment on it.


	3. A Question to Ask

Disclaimer: Very much not mine.  I'm just playing in Tolkien's world.

Eirien laid down her embroidery when her husband came in, shaking his head over a piece of parchment that kept threatening to roll back up.  "A letter from Imrahil?"  Although his grandfather was still technically in charge, they'd both known that it was their son they were leaving in charge of Dol Amroth in their absence.

"Mmn."  Adrahil wandered past her and sunk down into the chair by his desk.  "Certain people seem to think they can take advantage of my absence." The grin he flashed her was shark-sharp, and she was once again remembered why people remarked that Finduilas was her _father's_ daughter.  Not that Eirien didn't have her share of intellect, but she knew she could never match the level of sheer malicious cunning her husband and daughter were capable of, when the mood took them.  "Imrahil corrected them.  Nothing to worry about.  Finduilas not about?"

"She's out riding.  With Denethor."  Oh, and it was very difficult to keep the smug tone out of her voice at that statement.

Adrahil frowned.  "I'm rather surprised that she's taken to him.  You don't think he's too old for her?"

Her husband's one soft spot; he would never force a marriage upon his children, not matter how politically advantageous.  "I don't think Finduilas cares about petty things like that." She took up her embroidery again, making neat, even stitches, calming herself while she thought of the best way to put her next statement.  "He treats her as she wants to be treated; as a lady, but also as an equal."

"You think he is a good man."  Not a question, but a roundabout way of asking for approval.

"I do.  I think he will treat her well."

Adrahil nodded slowly, setting the letter from Imrahil down on the desk and pinning it there with a paperweight carved like a swan.  "Then I had better go answer Ecthelion's summons.  It would not do to keep the Steward waiting."

Eirien smiled.

-----

 There was little to see directly outside the walls of Minas Tirith, but she had enjoyed the ride anyway, the chance to feel the wind in her hair; it was almost like sailing.  She would miss the sea, she thought, but pushed the sorrow away.  _It is but a small price, for what you will gain.  He did not wreath her a crown of flowers nor write poetry about her beauty; when they discussed poetry, it was an argument over the works of Taldir of Minas Tirith, currently favoured among the nobles, versus those of Alphon of Dol Amroth, who Denethor claimed he actually preferred.  "He is a distant relative of mine, I think." noted Finduilas._

"Isn't everyone of note in Dol Amroth some sort of distant relative of yours, though?" was his reply, grinning, and she could not quite decide if it was a compliment or not.

It was but late afternoon when they returned, the horses picking their way through the streets and Finduilas watching, smiling, as the crowds parted way for them, little bows or curtseys littering their path.  They were quite fond of him, this dark son of the Steward, she realised, suddenly.  Denethor took a moment to speak to a stall-keeper, and retrieved her a delicate pastry, tasting of cinnamon and sugar.  "You seem to know your way around the lower levels." she noted quietly, nibbling at it, and he chuckled, answering a greeting shouted down from a window above before giving her an answer to her question.

"Those are my foot-soldiers, or they may be, when the time comes, when the horn calls."  As usual, he wore the Horn of Gondor at his hip; she'd never seen him parted from the precious heirloom.  "I have to make sure they are loyal, Finduilas.  On a battlefield, the world flattens.  There are no lords and peasants anymore; everyone bleeds the same."  She reached across to squeeze his hand where it clenched the reins; he looked away.  "But I should not bother you with my dark thoughts, dear one.  Come, we will take our horses to the stables, and then there is one more thing I would like to show you before we return."

-----

"I have been to the Houses before."  She stared at the plain buildings, squat and rather unimposing.  A couple of women sat on the steps, breaking bread between them.  The great oak doors were flung open, and people wandered in and out as they pleased.

"Ah, but have you seen all of them?"  He laughed, offering her his arm; she took it, smiling.  "I promise you, it is worth it."  The women scrambled to their feet as they swept up the stairs; Denethor ignored them, eyes searching the interior for someone or something.

Someone soon materialised out of the darkness, grinning.  "M'Lord."  Her eyes turned to Finduilas; one eyebrow lifted.  "And m'Lady.  What can I do for you today?"  She looked like any other of the healers; dark hair on the verge of greying, clothes obviously patched and mended many a time, and stained with the Valar-only-knew what.  But her impertinent… amusement, that's what it was.  The woman found them both quite amusing, and it rankled.

"Is there anyone in the gardens, Ioreth?" asked Denethor calmly, obviously not bothered by her attitude.

"Not for much longer there wont be, not if they know what's good for them."  Ioreth bowed jerkily (what sort of a woman _bowed?), and then grinned again.  "A couple of moments, if you don't mind."  It took a little longer than that, but she eventually reappeared, nodding at them.  "M'Lord and m'Lady may go through any time they like."_

"Her proper title is _Princess, Ioreth." Denethor commented, even as he took Finduilas' arm to lead her onwards._

"Begging your pardon, but the title appropriate to the wife of the Steward is _m'Lady."  Waggling her eyebrows, the healer disappeared back to her work, leaving Finduilas astounded at the sheer cheek, and Denethor chuckling._

"Impertinent wretch." he muttered, and at Finduilas' look, added, "The healers are an interesting lot.  By birth, many of them are as low as low gets – Ioreth is a good example.  But they wield more power than you might think.  What you were just talking to was the centre of gossip in Minas Tirith.  If it's worth knowing, she knows it; and even if you have to put up with her rather interesting manners… she's worth knowing, too."  They moved quickly through the halls; Denethor obviously knew where he was going.  "Learn to cultivate people like her, Finduilas.  Let them think they can get away with more than the average person.  It pays off in the end – ah, here we are."

The scent hit her first; roses and jasmine, among many other things she couldn't recognise.  Much of the gardens, she saw, were given over to the cultivation of herbs, but in the centre someone had coaxed climbing roses and jasmine and many other flowers besides over curving trellis frames.  A bench sat under them, looking out across to the east, but now it showed the dark menace of Mordor, and Denethor suddenly grabbed the bench and shoved it violently, turning it around to view only the Houses.  The edges of the gardens were more gracefully built than the rest of the Houses, and Finduilas wondered if this piece was older than the main entrance; carved vines wound up the columns of the arches that surrounded the garden.

"It's beautiful." she said, settling down on the now-rearranged bench.  "I never would have guessed…"

"A well kept secret." he said, smiling and clasping her hands in his.  "Finduilas, I did not just bring you here to look at pretty flowers.  There is something I wish to ask you.  No doubt our fathers are already planning things between themselves, but I would like to do things properly."  Not letting go of her hands, he slipped off the bench and knelt before her.  "Will you marry me? For I have never before found a woman who I could imagine calling my wife, and now that I have found her I will not let her slip away."

"I am not going anywhere." she whispered to him.  "I would be honoured to call you husband, and the White City my home."  He leapt up suddenly, and kissed her, and before she could decide whether she was more startled that he had done so, or that she was enjoying it, he pulled back.

"I am sorry.  That was… inappropriate.  Should I make amends, my Lady?"  He was so earnest, that she couldn't help but giggle.

"What would you do?" she asked, smiling.  "Climb to the top of the White Tower and catch me stars to weave in my hair?"

"Ai, and more.  I shall train every horse in the stables to bow when you pass – it would be easier, at least, then attempting to convince Ioreth to curtsey."  He was smiling as well now, and she leant against him, laughing

"While you're at it, you might have the tailors make me a dress from rose petals…"

"Of course! And build us both wings so that we may fly to the ends of the world and back – before breakfast…"

"And… and… and hang Thorongil from the chandelier by his ankles and make him hold a candle in both hands so he'll at least be good for _something_."  At this last, she lost control, and started giggling helplessly.

"If I was going to…" said Denethor, gasping for breath "…hang that man… it wouldn't be… by his… ankles…"

Ioreth was as good as her word, so there were no healers or curious apprentices peeking into the gardens to notice – or wonder why – the son of the Steward and the daughter of Dol Amroth were leaning against each other and laughing so hard they cried.


	4. Things Going To Plan

A/N: For disclaimer see previous chapters.

This was the third time this day that she had been stopped on the street by someone wanting to wish her well for the upcoming wedding.  By this point, she was almost used to it.  They all seemed to have this idea that this was a _love_ match, for some reason.  Finduilas suspected this reason had a name starting with Ior and ending in Eth, and she didn't see the point in trying to correct this misconception.  They shared affection, yes, and mutual respect, and that was certainly more of a basis for a good marriage in her mind than love, which was what Imrahil professed for the latest girl to have caught his eye, and seemed to Finduilas to be a fickle and inconstant thing.

She had more important things to organise than her wedding, though.  "We need to talk." she said, entering without knocking and closing the door to Ioreth's little room behind her.

Ioreth looked up, innocence oozing from every pore.  "Why, m'Lady.  Why would you want to talk to a simple healer such as myself?  Not that you are not most welcome here, for you are, but I would have thought that you had better things to do.  Why, the wedding is only a few months away now."  She sipped at a mug of something steaming and pungent, eyeing Finduilas over the rim of it.

"My mother is planning the wedding, and you may drop the pretence.  I know you are no simpleton.  I need information from you."

The healer set her mug down, smiling.  "My grandmother always said that a strong woman will have strong sons.  I would imagine that your sons, m'Lady, will shake the very earth we stand on when they pass.  That is good.  Gondor will need that strength.  May I see your hand?  No, no, the left one."  Rolling her eyes a little, Finduilas let Ioreth take her hand, turning it palm up.  "Thank you.  This is an old Lossanarch trick my grandmother taught me.  Yes… sons it is."  She looked up, smiling.  "Two sons, and a daughter."

"Is this old trick of yours called 'telling people what they want to hear', by any chance?" Finduilas retorted, and Ioreth grinned.

"In part, perhaps.  But my grandmother _did_ have the Sight, and she knew a lot of things that are long since forgotten."  Ioreth leant back in her chair and sipped 

"I do not believe in the Sight." Finduilas shrugged.  "Nor in your tricks.  Will you give me a straight answer if I ask you a question?"

"Ask away." replied Ioreth, apparently not at all offended.

"It is not so much a question as a request.  I need you to tell me – or find out, if you do not know – _everything_ there is to know about Captain Thorongil."

-----

"It does my heart good to see you like this, you know."

"If you would rest more, father, you would do your heart better."  Denethor turned, smiling.  "To see me like what?"

"Happy."  Ecthelion rested against the balcony, looking out and down upon the tiers of Minas Tirith.  "I know that it's a wonderful match politically, but – I'm rather glad that it's a little more than just that."  When Denethor said nothing, just leaning beside him, looking East where the darkness that was Mordor could be seen, he added "In fact, you're in such a good mood, that I feel that I could ask of you a certain favour."

"Oh?  And what would that be?"

"To be a _little_ more civil to Thorongil."

"Ai, if he would be a little more civil to _me._  Father, I do not wish to talk about this now."

"Bad luck."  Ecthelion used a cane nowadays, and he was very good at turning it to alternate uses.  Like now, as he prodded Denethor's leg, making sure he had his son's full attention.  "I will not see my two best men behaving like squabbling children.  Like him or not, he is a good fighter and an excellent Captain and Gondor _needs _him.  Your pride always was your worst quality, Denethor, and it is beginning to show."

"But as always, you will not be rounding up Thorongil to berate _him_ as if he was a boy with a mere ten summers on his shoulders."  Denethor turned back to stare out to the east.

"Of course not.  He is a good man, but _he is_ _not my son._"  Ecthelion sighed.  "And if it seems that Thorongil should be more often found at the head of Gondor's armies than Denethor, then perhaps some might think that the Steward favours one over the other.  Any who think that, though, are forgetting that the Steward is, after all, an old man, with many Captains – but only one of them is his son."

"You cannot keep me here forever, Father."  Denethor said, never taking his eyes off the east.  "I have dreamt it, that I would not see the end of these troubles in my lifetime.  Gondor needs me."

"Yes, Gondor needs you – and so do I.  Alive, and well, and able to lead when I am gone." Ecthelion came to put an arm around his son.  "Things change, but the White City is a constant.  As long as there is a Steward to guard her, she will not fail.  That is why your place is here."

Denethor shrugged, grumbling.  "I am sure you are right, Father.  That doesn't make Thorongil's impertinence any easier to bear."  Catching the look on his father's face, he added, "Fine.  I'll refrain from letting him know what I think of him in public."

"That was all I was asking."  Ecthelion smiled.  "Now, shall we go downstairs and make sure Adrahil and his daughter haven't taken over Minas Tirith yet?"

"Ai." said Denethor, grinning.  "I think we should."


End file.
